He produced after much uncertainty a torn and dirty sheet of some penny weekly.
“I’ve got all the others,” he said to Michael. “But one picture will often stump you like this. No joke intended.” He smiled feebly and pointed to a woman holding in one hand the letter S, in the other the letter T.
“What about Hirst?” Michael asked.
“Hirst,” repeated the Solutionist. “Her S T. That’s it. That’s it.” In his excitement he began to dribble. “I’m very much obliged to you, sir. Her S. T. Yes, that’s it.”
He began to shuffle toward the door.
“Anything you want solved at any time,” he said to Michael. “I’m only just upstairs, you know, in the room next to Mr. Barnes. I shall be most delighted to solve anything—anything!”
He vanished, and Michael smiled to think how completely some of his problems would puzzle the Solutionist.
“What’s his name?” he inquired of Barnes.
“Who? Barmy Sid? Sydney Carvel, as he calls himself. Yet he makes a living at it.”
“At what?” Michael asked.